


Daisies in Her Hair

by IncreasingLight



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Elf/Human Relationship(s), Elves with hair, F/M, Loss of Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncreasingLight/pseuds/IncreasingLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here is a short side story that I have written for Thedas' most bangable - and in my case, most obscure.  I mean, come on, Loranil?  Seriously?  A short story of forbidden love in a time of civil war, between two people that are never supposed to come together. </p><p>For those of you like me who spend too much time reading codex entries, you might want to read the entry on Girl of Red Crossing.  It's a song you pick up in the Emerald Graves.  The title is from that.</p><p>It's set in the same world as Andraste's Asta, same Inquisitor, same Cullen.  That is a minor pairing, and doesn't come in until the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. See Her Smiling

**Author's Note:**

> NSFW. Mostly the second and last chapters, but it's a love story. I don't get overly explicit, but I don't fade to black, either.

The first time he saw her she was singing.

“O, I know she is there, daisies in her hair, waiting by the chantry to marry me.” She had dressed the part, in white and yellow, her hair braided into a crown with sunny flowers woven through it as she wandered the woods picking herbs and mushrooms. He was so absorbed in tracking her that he forgot to be silent, and stepped on a stick. The crack echoed through the trees, her head shot up and she pulled a dagger, in one swift movement, crouched, herbs scattered.

She looked like she knew how to use it, so he froze. “Who’s there?” she called out.

Loranil sighed. He was as stupid as a nug to get caught in this situation, but there was no help for it. At least if she threatened him, he was a fast runner. “Just me,” he called in the common tongue. He stepped out of the shadow of the ash tree, ready to flee if necessary.

“An elf?” She tipped up her nose, managing to look down on him despite her diminutive height. “I wasn’t aware there were Dalish in the area. You are trespassing.”

Loranil laughed bitterly, “From my point of view, humans have been trespassing in the Dales for 700 years. Dirthavaren was promised to my people by Andraste’s children. Humans are nothing but squatters.”

“What do you know of history, Halla-rider?” the girl snubbed. Loranil grew angry.

“More than a silly girl singing about love in the forest, loud enough to let me sneak up on her!”

She drew back as if slapped. “You… beast! I’ll tell my father about you! He’ll drive your clan from his lands!”

Loranil shrugged, bluffing, “He won’t find us if we don’t want to be found. We wouldn’t be alive otherwise. Keep your threats, girl. They’re like your dagger - they have no edge.” He found himself held at knifepoint in an instant, no time to draw his own knife or bow. She nicked his throat and he hissed, a warm trickle trailing down his throat. What was this wild creature?

“How dull is my blade now, Dalish?” She sneered and then inexplicably, let him go. “Don’t let my father or brother see you or any of your kind. Neither will be merciful and my brother carries a big sword.”

Loranil dabbed at his neck with his fingers. It wasn’t bad, though hard to explain. “Does he know how to use it?”

She smiled, a flash of white in the green of the wood, and Loranil nearly smiled back. “Not as well as I use my knife!” and with that she swirled down, scooping up the herbs into the basket and heading back towards the town that Loranil was supposed to be scouting.

***

The second time he saw her she had been looking for him for days, lingering by the old ash tree in hopes he would come along. It wasn’t because she liked him, he told himself multiple times, or because he was interesting. But his curiosity was piqued by her persistence.

“What are you doing here?” Loranil dropped down from the tree, landing in a crouch that Was Void on his knees. “If I had been anyone else from my clan, you’d be dead.” There were no flowers in her hair today, he noticed. Instead she wore dull brown and green, similar to what his own people wore when hunting, practical, if dull. “You are dressed for the forest, today at least.” He realized belatedly that he preferred the daisies and shook his head. Was he mad?

The girl snorted, “They could try. Last time a human girl was killed by elves in the Dales the Chantry started an Exalted March. We all know how well that turned out.”

Loranil stifled a laugh. Inappropriate to laugh at the downfall of his people. “So you do know some history.”

“A bit…” she admitted. “It’s hard not to live in the Dales and not pick it up, honestly. Though my brother has succeeded well enough.”

Loranil paced around her, eyes narrowed like a wolf. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m here because Celene and Gaspard - the Empress and Grand Duke - have started a feud and it looks like the Dales are going to be caught in the middle,” she replied, trying for nonchalance. He made her nervous. “I’m warning you, oddly enough. Maker only knows why.” His eyes on her were making her too warm, and she shrugged her shoulders.

“Is that all?” Loranil laughed a little bitterly. “The Dalish are very good at avoiding human conflict.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure. But when the Plains…”

“The Dirth…”

“Whatever. The Dirth then, turn into a war zone I’m sure you’ll thank me when you’re far, far away. No one deserves to have their family wiped out.” She bit her lip. “Also, some hunters saw some of your Halla and talk of starting a hunt. Some nonsense about a golden one, and how it grants wishes. Silly superstition. But I didn’t… want you to lose your… cattle.”

It was Loranil’s turn to snort, “The Halla are not cattle. And we haven’t ridden them, for the record, since ancient times. They guide us to safe paths. Much like the owl.”

“Your pet deer guide you,” the girl deadpanned. “Of course. And that’s why they led you into the path of a war.”

“It’s safe enough for now,” Loranil bluffed again, and shrugged. “The only threat seems to come from a Da’len with a dagger. I think I can take her.”

“Da…”

“Da’len. It means child, or little one, if you prefer.”

“I am not a child!” She flew up into his face, all sound and fury, despite being so short, he was intimidated. “I turned eighteen a week ago.” She blushed and drew back, crossing her arms.

Loranil bit his lip. She was older than he, by a couple of months. Yet he had been considered a grown man for two years. Still, he owed her respect for the information. “I thank you for the knowledge. We are in your debt. I will pass it to my Keeper, and not mention you when I do so.” She had drawn back further, suddenly shy? He couldn’t say why he asked the next question. “May I have the honor of your name?”

She eyeballed him. “Mireille. Mireille Girent.” The lilt of her accent made the strange syllables lovely. Loranil wasn’t sure he could say it correctly, but tried. “Merci, Mademoiselle Mir-ray Jirant. I owe you a debt.” Loranil saluted her and turned to leave.

She called to him on impulse, “And your name, Monsieur? Comment vous appelez-vous?”

He spoke little Orlesian, but could make out her intention. “I am Loranil. You have no need of my clan name.”

He walked away, disappearing into the trees like a ghost. He hid, and watched her mouth his name, frowning.

***

They met again occasionally, ostensibly by accident, and then to exchange information, but slowly, slowly it became an excuse just to talk.

Months after he met her the first time, he saw her again, and she wasn’t alone.

“I told you, Yves, I’m not interested! If you continue to sing off-key beneath my window I’ll send Arnaud after you. You know he carries a big sword.”

Loranil snickered, barely covering his mouth in time. Evidently she liked making that threat. She glanced at the shadows hiding him, but he was frozen in place.

“Mireille,” the oaf following her grabbed her arm and she narrowed her eyes at him. If she had been a mage, he would have been immolated. “You cannot be blind to my feelings for you. Any other girl…”

“Then have one of them! I’m not interested!” She shrugged off his hand. “Don’t make me pull my knife!”

Loranil drew his bow and aimed, silent as the wind in the trees.

Yves grabbed her and shoved her against what Loranil had started to think of as their ash tree. “Mireille, people will start talking. You haven’t gone with any of the village boys. I would know. Arnaud is not that protective, or that good with his sword. Now, I want a kiss, and you are going to give me one. Embrasse-moi, Mireille.” He leaned in, and Mireille, foot halfway up the trunk of the tree, drew her dagger and held it to his throat. Loranil prepared to loose his arrow, heart pounding in his chest.

“Let me go, cretin,” Mireille snarled. “Perhaps you don’t fear my brother, but you should fear me. I carry more than one dagger, stupid Druffalo.”

Yves backed off, rubbing his throat, a thin red line dripping from it. “Fine. Consider your reputation ruined, Mademoiselle.”

“As if you play the Game,” Mireille sneered. “And as if I cared about my reputation.”

They both watched him go, and Loranil tracked him silently to make sure he returned to the town before returning to find Mireille huddled into a ball at the foot of the tree, weeping not so quietly.

“Mireille,” Loranil stopped. “Ca va?”

“Je suis mal!” Mireille wept harder. “Je suis… Loranil, I was so scared. He… he…”

“He put his hands on you.” Loranil’s voice was quiet but deadly. “I would kill him for that. I could see you did not want…”

“Maker’s mercy, who would?” Mireille shuddered. “He has hands like roasts! Not like…” her eyes flew sideways and she bit her lip to silence herself. “Thank you. I knew you were there. You laughed when I insulted him and told him…”

Loranil snickered again, “I have fond memories of that threat.”

Mireille shoved him over. “Cul du chien.” She hesitated, “Fond? Of a knife to your throat that drew blood?”

“Fond,” Loranil righted himself slowly, lest she shove him again. “I still have yet to see your brother. He does seem very… absent.”

Mireille smiled, “Very true, more than you think. Arnaud is sweet, but slow. Still, he would not approve.”

“Approve?”

Mireille thrust her chin up. “Approve of me meeting a man here. Any man.”

“Perhaps especially an elf?” Loranil’s eyes did not falter. This was madness. Insanity. Yet…

Mireille dropped hers, “Perhaps. But you would not harm me.”

“You barely know me,” Loranil looked away. “You’ve never met another Dalish, only the city elves, who probably aren’t as dull as my people assume. You probably have some of them as servants.”

“Yes, though not many. My father, he is not well off. We have the land and what it produces, which puts us both better off than many and worse off with Gaspard marching this direction. My brother is… slow,” she repeated. “He will likely live with my father forever. He is the heir in truth, but there is no one to help him. When my father dies… there will be only me. He will be taken advantage of when I marry.” She spoke as if it were inevitable. “It would be nice if the land lasted long enough for that to happen.”

“I thought you hadn’t been with any boys,” Loranil’s heart contracted. Foolish elf, he cursed himself.

“Yes, well, that hardly matters.” Mireille rolled her eyes. “I will be sold off to the highest bidder, probably the first bidder, as soon as my father can be arsed to find someone interested. Perhaps if my mother lived it would have happened already.”

Loranil swallowed the lump in his throat. “It is similar for me. Our clan is small, Keeper Hawen is already searching the other clans for a bride for me. But those clans are distant. I will probably never meet her until we are bound together.”

“Yes, that is very similar,” Mireille couldn’t look at him. “I should go. Yves will be spreading rumors.” She didn’t move to stand.

“As should I. I’ve already been long on this patrol, and we had a Da’len go missing last week. I wanted to ask you if you had heard anything?” Mireille shook her head. “That’s a blessing. Thanks be to Sylaise,” Loranil breathed. “Valorin is hotheaded and too young for responsibility. Perhaps he is yet well, and will come home on his own.”

Mireille frowned, “There was talk of demons by the well yesterday. Is Valorin a… mage?” She said it like a dirty word.

Loranil froze. “No,” he lied deliberately. There were Templars in the village.

“I hope he is well,” Mireille shrugged off the question and cast him another sideways glance. “I did intend to tell you of the demons. I almost forgot. You are rather distracting.” She accused him.

Loranil blushed. “As are you.”

“Am I?” Mireille cocked her head. “No one has found me so before.”

“It’s well known amongst the Dalish that most humans cannot see past their own too large noses,” Loranil teased. “You cannot expect much of them.”

“And it’s well know amongst the humans that the Dalish heads are buried so far up their own asses that they see back 1000 years ago,” Mireille observed. “Apparently we are both exceptional.”

“One of us is, at least,” Loranil paused. “I said that out loud.”

“Yes, you did,” Mireille breathed, “Was that a compliment, Monsieur Loranil?”

“It was intended as such,” Loranil admitted.

Mireille scowled, and with a jerk she grabbed Loranil’s shoulders and pulled him in, kissing him.

It was a horrible kiss, hard and awkward, with closed lips and chapped lips. All the same, Loranil shut his eyes and took control, shifted his mouth slightly, running his tongue across her lips. She tasted of tears, and as she relaxed and opened her mouth for him, mint and oranges - a rare treat for the elves, but her father had an orchard. She moved her hand to cup his head, moaning into his mouth. He deepened the kiss, craving her taste. That shocked her and she pulled away.

“This is wrong…” she said, and his heart fell with the knowledge.

“Yes,” he agreed, shutting his eyes and slumping back against their ash tree.

“Well, shit,” Mireille said, and dove back in towards him. She had him against the forest floor in a heartbeat, his hand over her back, longing to creep lower, but fearing her daggers. “Loranil,” she panted against his throat. “Touch me.”

Loranil groaned, “Mireille, I…” he protested, so she grabbed his hand and moved them to her ass.

“I am no… Da’len,” she stumbled.

“That’s not it,” Loranil froze, and then cupped her gently, pushing her against him, so that she could feel how hard he was for her. “It is not that I don’t desire you, either. Mireille, you cannot say that my being an elf does not matter.”

“And so does my being human,” she shot back. “I don’t care. We know it won’t last, but I… care for you. You are the best thing about my life. My father is making me leave, Loranil. Gaspard is on his way to meet the Empress’ armies at Pont Agur. I would… know you, before… so that I have something that was mine, before…”

Loranil stopped her with another kiss. “I cannot say I haven’t wanted this too. But I have never… have you?”

“No,” Mireille laughed. “Isn’t it obvious? You at least had kissed before.”

“Yes, but she married and moved to another clan,” Loranil confessed. “It was youthful experimentation. This is…” Desire, he thought. Surely nothing more. His heart twinged with the lie.

“I’m not sure what this is,” Mireille admitted. “You are probably right. We shouldn’t rush in.” She stood up, awkwardly brushing at herself, and refusing to meet his eyes. “I am sorry I threw myself at you,” she looked down her nose at him. “You don’t deserve that.”

“No,” Loranil agreed, and surprised himself by surging upward gracefully to meet her lips again.

This kiss was far better, the right combination of lips and tongue, Loranil held her properly at the waist and she flung her arms around his neck. When she finally pulled away she had a glazed look in her eye. “Sweet Andraste,” she sighed, “my lips are tingling.”

Loranil held her a little tighter. “When do you leave?”

“Two weeks, I think…” Mireille hesitated. “Maybe sooner. Papa is a Gaspard supporter, he wants to serve, so he won’t send me until he and Arnaud,”

“He is going to make your brother…” Loranil’s brow creased.

“Shhh,” Mireille put her finger on his lips. “Papa is not a bad man. And Arnaud is good with his sword, just not… clever with it. He takes orders very well. What life does he have with our lands as good as destroyed?”

“Two weeks,” Loranil closed his eyes. “I will find a way. I will be here every day. Can you…” he stopped. What was he asking?

“I will come,” Mireille said simply. “Wait for me.”

 

 


	2. Dreaming of the Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should apologize to all francophones for my terrible version of Orlesian. Just assume any mistakes are a result of difference in dialect? Sorry to mutilate your beautiful language.

The next day he brought her daisies, and tucked them into her hair as they kissed and explored each other under the old ash tree. It was madness, they both knew it. They didn’t share a native language, or a religion, or even a common race, but their bodies understood what their hearts were trying to say.

Their tongues were awkward with their speech as she said ‘’til tomorrow’ and he said ‘safe journeys’. Never good-bye, as they both feared to make it a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Three days of meeting and increasingly desperate kisses and touches under the ash tree and she said, ‘Val Royeaux. Papa is sending me to my aunt in Val Royeaux.” She stared at her boots and Loranil took her hands.

“When?”

“Only four days. Papa and Arnaud ride to meet with Gaspard’s men tomorrow.”

“Then I will meet you tomorrow,” Loranil lifted her chin. “We have decisions to make.” And he kissed her again under the old ash tree, it’s berries blood red above them.

She could not sleep that night, first for the noise of the packing up of the household and after for fear and anticipation of what Loranil would bring up on the morrow. She dreaded his good-bye.

She was fatigued when she rose to bid her father and brother a bon voyage. Still tired even after her morning coffee and simple breakfast. She made her way into the forest in the afternoon without her usual stealth, mind too busy and exhausted for quiet watching.

And Loranil was already waiting. She rushed to him and embraced him, putting everything she could not say into her kiss, her fatigue, her longing for him, her desperate fear of being separated, of leaving her home to be destroyed.

He handed her a bright pink spider flower, and she clenched it tight. “Do you know what this means?” She raised her eyes to his.

“Amongst my people, it is a code of sorts,” he said, running his fingers along her side, under the simple blouse she wore instead of a hunting jacket. “This one means, ‘run away with me’, when presented on its own. If I had given you a bouquet of them, it would have meant ‘flee with me’.” He laughed, and she saw his own exhaustion reflected there in his eyes. “I considered that.”

Mireille choked out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “Not so different after all.”

“We haven’t found anything that is that different, have we?” They leaned against each other, both content to let the unspoken question stand for a moment. They stood there, taking comfort in the other’s presence.

There was a rustle in the bushes beyond them, and they snapped apart. Mireille to draw her dagger quietly, and Loranil swinging down his bow as if to lay it down on the ground. His eyes narrowing, Loranil stalked the bush - only to have nug streak away, squeaking in alarm. Mireille relaxed again, laughing at herself. “I was so sure we were being watched! It would be just like Yves to…” she grew pale. “Sacre Coeur de l’Andraste, Loranil. I cannot run away - where would we go? There is no land, no country in Thedas that would accept us together.” She closed her eyes, despair written on her face. “I cannot be without you, yet we must be separated. It is inevitable.”

Loranil took a breath, “I could convert. Andraste… she was a great leader for my people. Who is to say that the absent Dalish gods are more powerful than your absent Maker? If he exists, he turned his gaze away from us as well as you.” He took her hand. “I will do anything, Mireille.”

She shook her head, “C’est impossible!” She buried her face in his shoulder, trying not to sob, but tears coming despite her strength of will. “I will go to my aunt’s in Val Royeaux.”

Loranil clenched his teeth. “I will find a way, ma vhenan. I will send you a letter when I do. My Keeper is not evil, can even be lenient. He will understand. I will make him!”

Mireille turned her head against the leather of his shoulder and nodded, resignation on her face. “Oui, Loranil. I will await your letter. Now, please - we have so little time - kiss me?” She raised her face to his and he kissed her tears away first - eyes, cheeks, chin, jaw and then her lips, more tender than he ever was before.

She would not allow him to be tender for long, thrusting herself against him impatiently, driving him to distraction, rubbing her hips and stomach against his length in unspoken demand, reaching for the ties of his leggings.

Loranil broke away at last. “I will not…” he panted. “Mireille, I want you so badly. You must know. But here? Now?”

“When else, Loranil?” She asked shrilly, defiant once more. “Shall I remove to Val Royeaux, never to see you again without having known you? Shall I marry some lesser chevalier or merchant with more money than prick and give him what I would give you?” Her face grew devious, “Besides, I thought elves liked to make love in the woods.”

Loranil choked. “Making love to you would be… wonderful, anywhere at all, but…” he looked around. “Not here.” He thought hard, frantically. “The ancient baths? You know them?”

“Of course,” Mireille scoffed, “I have lived here my entire life.”

“Tonight. Your father will not return for a day or two?”

“That’s right.” Mireille lit up. “Really? You will meet me there?”

“I think we need a new meeting place at least. And I can hardly sneak into your home, absent father or not. Your servants would know. Elves hear remarkably well,” Loranil justified. “They or the villagers would kill me.”

“Yes, but I thought…” She bit her lip. She understood so little about his people, even after all the months of meeting and talking. “In the village, the Chantry Sisters say that even the elves hold sex as sacred, and so we can do no less, saving ourselves for our Maker-given husband.”

Loranil gathered her to him, “Mireille, know this. We don’t have long right now, but I swear to you by any god you choose, I would marry you today in front of the god of your choice if it meant that I could be with you forever.” He released her. “Now, the baths, after dark?”

“Until this evening,” Mireille agreed. He turned to leave and she caught his hand. “Loranil, I… je t’aime.” It was easier to say in her native tongue, somehow.

“Ma vhenan,” Loranil breathed, and almost drew her back to him, regardless of plans made and proper places. He cleared his throat, “Je t’aime, aussi.” He pulled her back to him and tried to steal another kiss.

“Your accent is atrocious!” She laughed and shoved him away, playfully. “Go away! I will see you tonight.” The tears fell from her eyes despite the smile that tried to hide them.

***

The sun set orange over the crags as Loranil made his excuses (lies, he reminded himself, refusing to use a euphemism for the betrayal of his clan) to Keeper Hawen, saying he was going to scout for the approaching army, try to kill some wolves for the hides - they were more active at night. All under the guise of keeping the clan safe from the humans and animals that threatened it.

The clan’s bad luck had held, sickness and broken aravels, low stores of food and supplies - with the armies setting up so close, they encroached upon the Halla and their hunting and gathering grounds, and Valorin was still missing… but he was a strong teenager. Surely he was fine.

The clan should have left, long ago. Followed their absent First into the Emerald Groves, Red Templars or no, however foolhardy his plans had been. They were too small a clan to be allowed to splinter that way. And he was causing more splintering. Loranil tried to put the knowledge of his betrayal behind him. She was worth it, all of it.

After all, his Keeper had told him just today that they had enough hunters, and that he was going to try a different clan in the Free Marches about a marriage for him. Loranil had tried to look pleased, as Hawen expected. He was a healthy man and a strong hunter - even with his recent preoccupation he brought something home every day, and not many of them could say that, with the occupation of the Dirth. And such an arrangement had not been unexpected. They needed more mages, with Valorin missing and probably gone forever, but mages were not so easy to come by. Still the knowledge of his impending marriage and departure stabbed through his gut like his own dagger turned on him.

He made it to the Baths, elf-sight aiding him in the darkness, to find Mireille waiting, basket - a very large basket - at her side, wearing the yellow and white dress he had first seen her in.

Daisies were in her hair, that lovely straw-colored hair the same as her father’s fields. She touched them self-consciously. “I stole them from the Miller’s garden. Margot will be furious. I’ve done it before and she knows.” She hid her nervousness with a laugh, “I can’t see in the dark, so I had to leave before sundown.” She fidgeted with the hem of her dress. “I brought some food and some… blankets. The stones are cold already.”

“A good thought,” Loranil said, awkward himself with the knowledge of what lay before them. “Shall we lay one out?”

“Certainly!” She jumped and rummaged through the basket, seeming relieved to have something to do. “It seemed like ages, waiting,” she babbled. “I had it all set out before, and then it seemed like you weren’t coming…” She found the blanket and he came up behind her, and covered her hands with his as she prepared to spread it out, an arm on either side of her, her backside pressed against him.

“Relax, ma vhenan,” he breathed in her ear. “We don’t have to… if you don’t want. Je suis votre homme, no matter what happens tonight.”

“Non, I am yours,” she leaned, back against him. “I want this. Even if it is only for tonight. Even if it’s all I ever have.”

He let her go, and she shivered. The nights were getting colder, but not cold enough for that. She spread out the blanket and they sat together, barely touching. He asked on sudden impulse, “May I take down your hair?”

“Oui,” she assented, and turned her back to him. He stretched out his legs on either side, cradling her against him and plucked the daisies from her hair, one by one dropping them onto the blanket, handing the last to her.

“For you, ma vhenan,” he offered.

“What does that mean?” She asked, and accepted.

“My heart,” he answered simply.

“And how would you say je t’aime?” She asked boldly, overcoming her hesitation.

“Ar lath ma,” he said it like a vow and kissed the back of her neck.

“Ar lath ma, ma vhenan,” she breathed, entranced and Loranil had to close his eyes with the pain of another dagger to his heart.

“Your accent is atrocious,” he joked instead, and made her laugh. He unwound her braid and ran his fingers underneath the waves as she arched under his touch and back against him. He bent and kissed her neck again, moving on quickly, not daring to leave a mark that would have to be explained.

Mireille grew bold again, “Touch me, ma vhenan,” she said, and pulled his hand from her waist to her breast. “You will have to, eventually.”

“I awaited only your permission,” Loranil laughed, and stroked her through the cloth, so thin, listening to her little moans. He moved his other hand to her buttons. “May I?”

“Of course, Loranil.” He unbuttoned her slowly, and slid the light fabric off her shoulders. She hadn’t worn a breastband, her breasts - not much larger than an elven woman’s, really - glowed by the light of the moon reflected on the water. “You are lovely,” he said, reverently, and drew a line down her spine. “How stupid and blind those human men must be, to ignore you.”

“Eh, my breasts are too small and I have too many muscles,” she shrugged, and he kissed her shoulders, loving the gesture. “The barmaids at the tavern do not train with weapons and are a lot more eager to be… friendly.”

“I have loved you since you held your dagger to my throat,” Loranil spoke, lips to her back, hair swept to the side. “You were extraordinary, like a golden spirit in the trees. For days, I thought I was dreaming you.”

Mireille trilled merrily, “If I tried that with the village boys I would have been hauled before the local Templars!”

“I am glad you did not, ma vhenan,” Loranil cupped both breasts with his hands. “I am honored.” He stroked her, let her send her moans into the still of the night, heard her pant and felt her move restlessly against him.

She spun against him all at once, his hands falling from her. “Loranil, please, will you… May I?” She groaned. “You wear far too many clothes.” She eyed him impatiently. “And I have no idea how to remove them. I would see you.”

Loranil stood and undid the hidden buckles and straps confining him, stacking them off the blanket. “I am sorry about the leather - I had to lie to my Keeper, to be out overnight.” He did not say that his clan had worn armor for weeks, waiting for the attack from the village that never came. The village had been too drawn into their place in the war, and had little time for the rumored Dalish clan nearby. He finished, pulling off his leggings and faced her, trying not to shiver. The air wasn’t that cold.

She looked upon him, mouth open, dress around her waist and her hair - longer than he had thought, hanging around her breasts. In the moonlight her straw colored hair looked silver, not gold. “I have no words,” she said bluntly. “I might be able to express myself in Orlesian, but I never went in for poetry. You are so… trim?” She laughed. “I have no words. But I like you.”

“You are more than lovely,” he said, breathlessly. “You are lit by the stars and moons above,” he reached and drew a lock of it through his fingers.

“Oh, so you are the poet,” she shrugged again. “It’s hair. I would cut it off but my maid won’t allow it.”

“Don’t cut it,” Loranil begged.

“I won’t,” and Mireille rose to her feet. “On one condition.” Her dress dropped to her feet and she kicked it aside. She wasn’t wearing any smallclothes at all, and the curls at the join of her thighs were the same silver in the light. She looked like the river behind her, curved and smooth.

“Anything,” Loranil promised recklessly.

“Make love to me. Now.” And she stepped into his arms.

“I don’t think the Dread Wolf could stop me,” Loranil said and he put his lips to hers.

Skin to skin, nothing between them but their own lives, she moved against him like water, her tongue the ripples that hit the bank. She wrapped a leg around him, trying to pull him closer yet. “Lie down with me,” she ordered.

He complied and they lay against each other, her leg over his hip, his hand against her breast, his mouth against hers. The tension built, and he rolled her to her back, dropping his hand between her legs. “Do you touch yourself here,” he laid his hand, barely grazing her center.

If she blushed in the moonlight, he couldn’t tell. “Sometimes,” her voice sounded small.

“Then let me see,” he took her hand and led her down to herself, brushing himself accidentally and cursing at the contact. “Fenhedis!”

Her head snapped up, “What? What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said, chagrined and throbbing now, even with that brief touch. He was in pain, trying to fight the urge to have her cover him with her hand instead. He kept his chosen course. “Right now, I need to see how you… how I can touch you.” He left his hand over hers, and she started to stroke, cupping herself gently, but with purpose.

She spoke, irritated, “I don’t want to make myself come, Loranil. I do that enough.” He bit back a laugh. “I want you.”

“Yes, but I don’t understand your body yet. Teach me, ma vhenan,” Loranil beseeched. When she dipped lower, he followed and stayed, collecting the gathered moisture around his fingers. He circled her entrance, watching her face.

“Just how far did that youthful exploration go,” she tilted her head, suspicious. “You don’t touch me like you’ve never touched a woman before,” she accused.

He laughed, “I have not lain with a woman. But I have touched one. More than once. Until she was sent away, as I told you before. We learned each other, but hesitated to take the final step, knowing that it could not last.”

“And yet you will lie with me?” Her eyes were wide.

“This is different. I love you. I never loved her, nor she me. We were convenient to each other, in the rush of youth,” he bent and kissed her. “You need not feel jealousy, ma vhenan.” He kissed her longer, and she met him, his youthful partner forgotten in her own increasing urgency of desire, as he stroked her. Her eyes closed, and she tensed, moaning, “More!”

He loved how demanding she was - as fiery as any elf he had known and more. Eagerly he pushed his hovering finger inside her and froze, his body throbbing again. Hot, wet, tight… his cock started to leak.

“Loranil,” she cried out, thrusting up into his hand, uncontrolled. “Loranil!”

He dropped his lips to hers, needing to taste his name upon her. Their tongues warred with each other, no clear victor in the battle they waged. He dropped his mouth to her breast and almost by accident, she grabbed him.

He hissed, and thrust into her hand. “Mireille! Don’t!” He forced himself to stop moving. “Mireille, you don’t have to… I will be fine. Worry about me… the next time.” Let there be a next time, he prayed to any god that was listening. Perhaps the god of secrets? His mind raced. Was there a god that would be sympathetic to such a situation?

“Very well,” she said, disappointed. “May I touch you, after?”

“I would like nothing more,” he assured her. “Now,” he stroked her again, “I’m not sure how much longer I can hold back after that. Once I am inside you I know I will come quickly. I am on the edge as it is. You need to tell me if you are ready.” He was shaking now, but she was not. He kissed her neck again, tenderly, the rush of her hair against his cheek an embrace in itself.

“I’m not sure,” she began.

“Then you aren’t ready,” he laughed. “I wish I could touch you all night long and still keep going. Your breasts,” and he mouthed one, laving it with his tongue, “Your navel,” he kissed it as well, watching her touch herself a little faster. “I would taste you everywhere, if I could,” he added, dipping one finger back inside and adding a second, gently, slowly.

The stretch of his hand inside her undid her, her hips raising to push against his hand ever more hungry and impatient. She writhed against him, forgetting to stroke herself so he slid his thumb against her cautiously and thrust against her again.

She rode his hand with abandon, single-mindedly chasing ecstasy. His thumb stayed still as she moved against it and it was more, more than touching herself in her bed in the dark of night, more than anything she had ever felt. It became her sole focus, and she knew. “Loranil,” her voice and body shook, “Je suis prest. I am ready.” She nearly sobbed with the need that rushed through her.

Loranil sighed with relief. Her bucking had brought her against him, and he had worried he’d embarrass himself if she continued, putting an end to the evening. “All right, Mireille. Put your arms around my neck, vhenan.” He eased his fingers out of her, and she whimpered at the sudden lack of contact. “Your legs around mine.” The position brought her slick core against him in a dangerous way. She evidently thought so too, as she cried out and arched against him, breasts pressed against him.

“Soon, vhenan. First, let me…”

He didn’t get to finish, as she reached down, scowling in the moonlight, adjusted him irritably and awkwardly and shoved him into her with those impossibly strong legs. “Fenhedis!” He shouted, the sound of his curse echoing off the stones around them. She was tighter and warmer around his cock than his fingers. “Mireille, why…”

She lay panting beneath him, “I - was - ready,” she gritted out. “You would have talked _forever._ Now, finish this!” She moaned and bucked beneath him.

He couldn’t resist his bossy girl, and moved slowly through her, dragging it out, trying to maintain a sense of composure, making her make the sort of sounds he had heard since a child from a dozen aravels. He sat up slightly and she moaned again at the change in pressure, dropping her hands from his neck. “Touch yourself, vhenan,” he whispered, “and hold on.”

He was going to finish very fast, he knew it by the way his balls were tight where they rested against her. The only thing to do would be to let her finish herself. He must wait…

She stroked herself desperately, circling and moving against him, begging, “Please, Loranil!”

He tried to be gentle, gliding instead of thrusting, slow and even, but when he felt her release, he fell apart, and abandoned the part of lover, all control, all desire to keep her from pain flew out of his head as he drove into her, again and again and again. He released into her with a groan far, far too quickly and immediately felt guilty as she shuddered under him, all his weight on top of her. He braced himself quickly, wary of crushing her. “I am sorry, I…”

“Shush, my love,” she kissed him, and they were silent for a long time, lazy kisses saying more than words. He stayed within her for as long as possible, trying to prolong the moment, but such moments are fleeting, and he slipped out with a sigh.

He got up and wet a piece of cloth at the river to bring to her, rinsing himself off briefly in the all too cold water.

“Merci,” she whispered, and he wondered again if she were blushing. “For all of… this,” she waved vaguely.

“Mireille,” he began, “I meant it. I will find a way, make a plan. There has to be…”

“Shush,” she said again, smiling. “I believe you. I will wait in Val Royeaux for word. I will do everything I can to join you. Ar lath ma.”

“Je t’aime.” And with that they dressed silently, packed her basket, and Loranil led her home in the dark, to see her safe.

 


	3. Petals Lost and Drifting

The next night, she did not come at all, and Loranil, despite his better judgment, made his way into her village, to try to discover what had happened.

He found her father returned in her family‘s orange grove, her family preparing for war, and Yves standing behind her father smirking.

“You have no business staying out all night,” her father began. “You should thank Yves for telling me, for watching out for you.”

“It wasn’t all night! I wanted to watch the stars! There was a meteor shower, and it was a clear night!”

“You have been allowed far too much freedom, it has made you headstrong and wild,” her father shook his head. “There are elves in the area, the Empress’ army, even Gaspard’s chevaliers could have harmed you if they had discovered you alone and unarmed.”

“I wasn’t unarmed,” Mireille muttered. “I never am.”

“Still, you leave tomorrow, and you aren’t leaving your room until then. Go assist Brianne.” Monsieur Girent turned to Yves, who smirked proudly. “Thank you for your assistance, young man. I am sure that my daughter will thank you as well. As it is, she leaves for Val Royeaux tomorrow. We have left our departure too late. You are dismissed.”

“Monsieur,” Yves bowed, and left.

Loranil stayed nearby, trying to catch glimpses, but he saw no sign of her at all until the following day. He watched her leave a single daisy on the steps of her home, and then climb onto the horse that would carry her to Val Royeaux from where he was perched on the top of a rock formation. He knew, in his heart of hearts, it was not the end.

The village was all but abandoned in the following days, left to wild dogs and scavengers. He retrieved the daisy at night, completely unobserved.

The armies met, and Loranil, under orders from his Keeper to not interfere in human matters, watched the wheat fields so like her hair go up in smoke, and the orange groves burnt in turn, with a smoke that smelled of citrus and sugar. The Freemen defected and looted her home, going through her precious things. Loranil watched it all happen, fists clenched, forbidden from entering the village as long as it was occupied by the Freemen.

Months passed, and then a year. Keeper Hawen had news from other clans, not about his inevitable marriage, but filled with news of an Inquisition, like Ameridan’s of old, and the ancient magister they fought.

The clan was absorbed in the business of survival, against undead and demons and the human armies, both sanctioned and not. They stayed apart as much as possible, suffering, and falling further into desperate measures for lack of supplies and necessities.

And then the Inquisitor came. She was a funny woman, engaging and intelligent, with more brains than brawn, but more than willing to admit it. She laughed when she was revived after fighting wolves by her bitter companions. She laughed, chasing the Golden Halla towards their camp, bending over with the laughter when her elf companions - both unlike any elves Loranil had ever met - struggled with herding a single halla, and even more when the blond elf - not straw like Mireille’s but sunny and short - trod through a pile of halla manure, slipped and fell, coating the back of her legs. “Oh, Sera, if you could see your face!”

“Just see what I’ll do with this stuff the next time you aren’t looking,” Sera muttered, “You’re on my blacklist, Your precious Ladybits.”

She spoke of elven lore with his Keeper, wondering over the local ruins and veil fire runes, and cleared out their sacred graveyard of the encroaching demons, leaving the graves intact, and gracing them with a single persimmon flower as a gesture of respect. The Keeper trusted her in spite of her race, and Loranil marveled.

She found Valorin’s body, and returned the remains to his sister, with words of comfort. “Teenagers are stupid,” she admitted, “and I am sorry for your loss. But he was looking for this,” and she handed off an ancient amulet like it was nothing, and suddenly the entire clan trusted her. She restocked their stores with her own - even sending for Great Bear hides so that they would be protected against the oncoming winter. She was generous, and kind, and even when her elf mage left, after she was unable to save his spirit friend from possession, she smiled, and kept helping, both them and the humans.

One day, as she was dropping off a load of wolf hides to their merchant, he grew brave enough to approach her. “The Dalish have heard of the Inquisition, and this Corypheus you fight. He endangers us all. I wish I could join you, but Keeper Hawen would never let me go, I’m sure.” He was crestfallen, scared to ask if she would help him as well, scared to confess the truth.

Asta sized him up with a smile, “Let me see about convincing your Keeper.”

Loranil was enthusiastic, “I’m a decent scout, and a good hunter!” She dropped the smile and grinned over her shoulder, heading for Hawen with determination.

She returned in an hour. “Welcome to the Inquisition, Loranil. We have a courier headed back to Skyhold tomorrow. You travel with them. Report to Cull…” she blushed, inexplicably, “Commander Rutherford. He’ll assign you.”

Loranil saluted her, without truly believing his good luck, “Inquisitor! You have helped us so much, could you do one thing for me?” he asked, hesitating. “Could you have your courier deliver a letter for me?” He held his breath.

Her face lit up, “Is that all? I thought you were going to ask me to kill a pride demon with just my daggers! Of course!” He had had it written for weeks, since she had first appeared at their camp, and he handed it over, a little frightened to let it go. It had been so long - would Mireille even remember him? The Inquisitor read the address, momentarily stunned, meeting his eyes and winking. “My lips are sealed, Loranil. Better get packed.”

Loranil relaxed. She wouldn’t tell Hawen after all. And Mireille, for better or worse, would know where he was, and that, if she liked, she could join him. He went to gather his limited belongings, holding his hand over the daisy, long faded and starting to crumble, where it rested over his heart.

***

Loranil buried himself in his new duties. The Commander was impressed and a little shocked at his eagerness - even going so far to ask if he was really Dalish, he was so… nice. And then he rewarded him with more duties, and referred him to the Inquisition’s spymaster. He found himself working under Leliana more and more, though not as an official spy, as he was obviously uncomfortable with some of her more underhanded decisions. She professed herself pleased as well, though slightly less enthusiastic than the Commander had been. “You are certainly eager enough,” she would tell him, raising one eyebrow, almost as if disapproving, but giving him the next missive all the same.

He collected his salary every week almost in shock - he had never had his own money before - and stored it away securely in a chest of his own, towards the day Mireille could join him, spending no more than what he must, to keep his armor and weaponry fit, and enough arrows to fuel his bow. It was full winter now, and he knew there was no way she could easily reach him, with the winter they were having. Even Skyhold, as sheltered as it was, was frostbitten and drifted in more often than not, soldiers tasked with shoveling the drifts from the bridge and portcullis in an attempt to keep them accessible to the outside world. His own missions kept him close for the time being - though Leliana spoke of sending him to the Arbor Wilds once the weather broke. He was ready to go, except for the lack of word from Mireille.

Spring came eventually, the daisies bloomed in the garden and he picked one, twirling it idly. It could be any day, but he had started to doubt. Perhaps… surely she would have sent word? But perhaps, even sending word to an elf that he was a fool was beneath her… she would have been living a finer life in Val Royeaux, surrounded by people, men, far grander than he. Better than anything he could offer, even as an Inquisition scout.

More than a year was under the bridge, two since they had met. He tried to resign himself. She had moved on. But he could not, despite friendly hints from others. His friends laughed at him, waiting for a girl when there were others who could relieve his loneliness. He just shook his head, and declined to meet them in the tavern to meet such girls. Even if she had moved on, to a chevalier, he imagined, human and distinguished, he would not. He prepared for the Arbor Wilds with a passion, training long hours to build better stamina and accuracy. Leliana started to train him as a Tempest, and even Sera took notice, to help him learn the alchemy he needed. It didn’t come easy to him, and he was grateful for the hard work it took, a distraction against the dread in his heart.

He spent every morning and every evening holding the fragile remains of the flower, now pressed between the pages of a copy of ‘Hard in Hightown’ Varric had given him, shocked that he had never read it. He still hadn’t, but it was a safe place for the token.

The Inquisitor stole into his room one evening, and he struggled to pull himself off his bunk, to salute her properly, despite his bare feet, “Inquisitor! What… who?” A woman stood behind her, and he gaped.

Typical of Mireille, she flounced indignantly into the barracks and threw herself at him, where he sat awkwardly on his bed, burying her face into his neck. “What are you doing, Dalish, hiding yourself away in here? We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” The Inquisitor stood against the wall by the door, a smugly pleased.

“Mireille?” He grabbed her face, and held it away from his, devouring her with his eyes. She was thinner, less tan and freckled, but her hair was the same color, unbound and tangled, and he buried his hands in it above her neck.

“Loranil!” She dove at his lips, and for long moments they lost themselves in each other, both starved for the contact, the longing of the last year pushing them past decorum and subtlety. It was only when Mireille bit his lip and he groaned against her that the Inquisitor cleared her throat, and they jumped away from each other guiltily.

The Inquisitor’s eyes were sparkling. Loranil shook his head, stunned, “How? I had almost given up.”

Mireille’s laugh tinkled around him, like a spring shower through the trees. “My aunt had to be convinced.”

The Inquisitor rolled her eyes. “Orlesians. Everything comes back to the Game.”

Mireille giggled, irrepressible, “But… it turns out she had an elven mage lover, Ellery! They’ve been together for years, Loranil! It turned out he was missing, and my aunt desperate to find him…”

“And so we found him,” Asta laughed. “It was a bit of a coincidence, really. We were looking for him anyway, hoping to gain a bit of influence for an… unrelated project.”

“And now my aunt is most appreciative, and _most_ sympathetic, to us and to the Inquisition! Isn’t it wonderful?! She said I must leave at once, and packed me off to Skyhold almost as soon as the Inquisitor was done speaking to her.” Mireille beamed.

“What about your father, and brother?” Loranil hesitated. “Do they know… everything?”

Mireille’s face fell. “Papa was serving Gaspard. He was an officer, though not high-ranking.” She looked worried and closed her eyes in despair, happiness forgotten. “He is in prison. Arnaud is… dead. Died in the first wave against the Empress, as far as my aunt has been able to determine. It has been months since we heard.”

“I am so sorry about that,” the Inquisitor mumbled. “I wish I had gotten there sooner, maybe more lives could have been saved.” She sighed, “It’s never enough, what I do.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Mireille flashed back at her. “Papa chose to rebel against the Empress. She has stripped him of his lands, and Arnaud… was never going to be able to handle the responsibility.” She bit her lip, practical, but grief-stricken all the same.

“Actually, the new elven Marquise of the Dales, Briala, might be sympathetic,” the Inquisitor noted, plots scrolling behind her eyes. She leaned in, whispering, “She’s the Empress’ lover, you know.”

Loranil broke out laughing, “Everyone has an elven lover, it seems, perhaps we are just too irresistible, Inquisitor.”

The Inquisitor laughed, “The Commander is definitely not elven.” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Damn it, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not a secret, but…” she sighed, “I have a problem maintaining professional distance. I’m supposed to be the leader of this group, not everybody’s best friend.”

Mireille curtseyed, “We are indebted to you, Your Worship. Trust that the knowledge will not be bandied about.” Her eyes were wide with surprise. “But… the Commander, milady? He seems so… stiff!”

Asta bit her lip, grinning in a successful attempt to not make an off-color joke about the Commander‘s stiffness. “Yes, well, that aside, do me a favor and don’t call me ‘Your Worship’. I get worshipped too much as it is.” She shrugged off the gratitude as if it were nothing. “Now then, Mireille, we need to find you a place to stay.”

Loranil tugged her to his side. “She stays with me.”

The Inquisitor shook her head. “Sorry, Scout. Commander’s orders - only married couples qualify for joint housing, and no couples in the barracks.” She looked regretful, “As hypocritical as the Commander is.”

“Then we will marry!” Mireille threw her chin in the air and looked down on the Inquisitor, despite her relative height. Loranil choked back a laugh, his tiny woman as fierce as any dragon, facing down the Inquisitor in her own keep. “What’s to stop us? My father is disgraced and in prison, my aunt is my nearest relation and she is favorable.”

The Inquisitor’s smile grew a wicked edge. “Well, we do have a Revered Mother that insists on hanging around. But what about an elven ceremony? Loranil? I don’t even know what they involve!”

“I have left my clan behind,” Loranil stated, stone-faced. “I will marry Mireille under whatever god she chooses. I promised her as much, long ago.” He tightened his arm around her. “I have waited, we have waited, long enough.”

“Actually, I think I have a better idea,” Asta tapped her finger against that wicked smile, and Loranil grew scared, for no obvious reason. “Loranil, escort Mireille to Ambassador Montilyet. Tell her that I said to arrange a gathering in the courtyard tomorrow. A wedding, and have _her_ intercede with Mother Gisele. I’m not her favorite person. I’m going to go speak with a friend.” The smile grew even more wicked. “Oh, Solas is going to _hate_ this.”

 


	4. Waiting By the Chantry

The next day broke clear and bright, the sort of spring morning that made you love the world and everything in it. Josie bustled around Mireille, adjusting the dress. “Asta is mad, trying to plan this in a _day_. The food isn’t ready, the drinks aren’t cold…”

“Josie, it’s fine.” Leliana called. “Try these shoes, Mireille.”

“As long as this Mother Gisele marries us all will be well,” Mireille insisted, worried.

“Don’t worry,” Leliana chuckled, “Even if she had refused, at the end of this day you will be married. The Inquisitor likes back up plans.”

Loranil waited on the steps to the main hall, nervous in the borrowed finery, the Inquisitor’s advisors and most of her inner circle backing him up, one for every step to the courtyard, where most of the Inquisition that was currently within Skyhold waited, watching.

“Don’t fidget!” Dorian hissed at him. “You are ruining the line of the jacket!”

“Quit fussing, Dorian,” the Commander ordered. He was standing as first witness. “I sympathize, Loranil. Every time I wear this thing I think it needs to be let out.” He pulled at the collar and shifted his shoulders as if to demonstrate.

And then Mireille came out of the hall and Loranil forgot to fidget. He forgot everything.

She was wearing daisies. A wreath in her hair, more embroidered on her dress, her hair unbound and flowing over her shoulders. Yellow and gold and white against tanned skin, and Loranil’s mouth dropped open, his eyes shining.

“That good, eh, kid?” Varric chuckled, and Loranil shut his mouth and tried to meet her, only to have the Commander grab his sleeve. “Nope, she comes to you, hot stuff. Patience. It’s only twenty steps or so.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Try to stay still.”

She was followed by the Inquisitor in her dress uniform, and in turn Asta was followed by a Revered Mother who looked slightly grumpy and an older, bald elf in Keeper’s robes. The elf nodded to Loranil, displeasure clouding his face. Asta spoke, and those gathered grew quiet.

“These two people come today to celebrate their love. A love that has transcended their cultures, their races and even their languages. A love that Thedas, for ages past, has only whispered about, laughed at, or ignored. No longer.”

“The Inquisition stands above Thedas, a symbol of faith, of freedom and above all, of equality. It endeavors to be fair and just, and occasionally even succeeds,” the crowd laughed, as intended, and Asta continued. “But how can we say such things if we do not back them up?” She took a breath and opened a piece of parchment. “I was recently in the Emerald Graves, exploring the Tomb of the Emerald Knights, a lost order of elven defenders, as rich in tradition as the Templars, the Seekers, or any order of chevaliers. I found… a letter, and a song, that tell a sad story, but one that is very appropriate for this day. I would like to read them both to you now. You will recognize the song, so I will read it first. I’ll spare you my singing.” The crowd chuckled again, knowing that the Herald of Andraste, even as a Sister, had been excused from singing the Chant of Light.

Commander Cullen braced himself, and plucked the page from her hand. “I’ll do it,” he said, and read the words, impassively. “Maker’s Breath, Inquisitor, this is _not_ a wedding song.”

“Just sing it, Commander, or I will,” she threatened. “This is important.”

“Very well,” Cullen grumbled, but he began.

“‘ _Too long I have traveled, soon I’ll see her smiling, the girl in Red Crossing I’m longing to see._ _O I know she is there, daisies in her hair, waiting by the chantry to marry me.’”_ He caught the Inquisitor’s eyes and shared a secret smile with her before continuing.

_“‘I’ve dreamed of the kiss I stole ‘neath the arbor. I’ve dreamed of the promise ‘neath the old ash tree. O I know she is there, daisies in her hair, waiting by the chantry to marry me.’”_

_“’One last stream to cross, one last hill to wander, until I reach the love I’m longing to see. O I know she is there, daisies in her hair, waiting by the chantry to marry me.’”_ Cullen got a little choked up and had to clear his throat to continue.

“’ _Running through the streets, only silence follows, elven arrows sunk into the old ash tree. O I know she is there, daisies in her hair, waiting by the chantry to marry me.’”_ Josie, Cassandra and Leliana wiped tears from their eyes. The Iron Bull blew his nose loudly and Dorian blinked rapidly, Bull rubbing his back.

 _“’Ruby on the Green, petals lost and drifting, take her to His side, Andraste, hear my plea. I found her lying there, daisies in her hair, waiting by the chantry to marry me.’”_ The Commander’s rich baritone voice faded out, and he folded the paper, closing his eyes, looking pained.

“Most of you know that song as “The Girl from Red Crossing”. Now, let me read you the letter I found in the Tomb of the Emerald Knights - an elven tomb,” Asta emphasized, “next to a dried wreath of daisies and covered in old blood,” she said almost fiercely.

“’ _Adalene, what care have I for gods I have never seen, for a Maker I do not know? Let others distract themselves with such lofty concerns. I know only this life, I have seen only this world and I care only for you.”_ Asta took a deep breath. _“Perhaps your priestess distrusts the sincerity of ‘uncivilized’ elves.”_ There was a ripple as the group gathered put the pieces of song and letter together. _“If she must hear me say I will follow the Maker, so be it. Your god intercedes as much as ours. My life will not change.”_ Solas sighed impatiently and Asta backhanded him in the arm. “ _I will return in two weeks’ time. My heart longs for you ‘till then and will remain with you forever after.’_ It is signed ‘Elandrin’,” Asta finished, dropping her hand to her side. “It was his tomb. The inscription upon it was a confession that the Emerald Knights had - through a tragic misunderstanding - murdered his human lover while she waited for him to meet her by the chantry.”

Asta grew fierce again, and Loranil’s eyes widened, seeing the leader she had become, “This plunged Orlais into the Exalted March of the Dales, leading the Dalish to a nomadic life, and sending other elves into lives of servitude and poverty in Alienages. All for a misunderstood _love.”_ Now the Inquisitor was angry. “We must set aside this hatred and distrust for each other! We must celebrate love where and if we find it - even in unlikely places. Elves and humans, mages and templars,” a couple of Templars looked guilty, while a few mages looked smug, “nobles and commoners, whether with dwarves or Qunari,” and Asta flashed a narrowed eye at Dorian who managed to look shy. “Hatred leads to destruction and despair. Love,” and she gentled, looking to her Commander, “leads to compassion and understanding. Today we will celebrate that love, and anyone who does not can leave the Inquisition. There is no room in the Thedas I am building for hate born of ignorance.” She straightened even more and ordered Mother Gisele and Solas forward. “Marry them. Perform both ceremonies. Let there be no question about how legal it is. Today, this beautiful couple will marry.”

In the end, the ceremonies were uncannily similar. Mireille whispered at the end, tears of joy in her eyes, “Not so different, after all,” just before Loranil kissed her madly beneath the garland of arbor blessing the Commander and Inquisitor held over their heads.

The couple ran down the stairs together, daisies thrown after them, laughing with unbridled joy. The Commander and Inquisitor laid down their garland, and Cullen picked up a single daisy off the steps. “And I know she is there, daisies in her hair,” he sang quietly, putting the single flower behind the Inquisitor’s ear, “waiting by the chantry to marry me.” Wordless, she leaned against him, content, and hoping beyond hope that for once, she had done enough. “You may have started something, Inquisitor,” he whispered into her hair.

“I certainly hope so,” she replied. “Though I have no idea who to contact if one of the Qunari mercenaries wants to marry a dwarf. What do dwarf weddings look like?”

Cullen chuckled. “Well, I meant something entirely different.”

“Oh?” She tried to look up at him, but he tightened his grip around her shoulders.

“Let them have their day,” he said. “We march on the Arbor Wilds in a matter of weeks. It isn’t long. They should have their joy while they can.” Asta nodded in agreement, and turned to walk back inside the hall. “Are you not going to join the party?”

“They don’t need the Inquisitor and her political leanings stealing their moment,” she said, practically. “Let them have their wedding feast without having to share it with the dissatisfied mutterings of those who oppose me.” She paused, and addressed Josie, still standing by, watching the couple at a distance. “Josie, you arranged that they will be shown to my old rooms later?”

“Yes, Inquisitor!” Josie beamed. “I can’t wait to see Loranil’s face.”

“Well, at least someone will get some use out of that bed,” Asta laughed. “Are you coming, Commander?” She threw an arch look over her shoulder. “We do march in a matter of weeks, after all. Do you have some time?”

Cullen bowed gallantly, “For you, always.”

“Good answer.”

***

The couple stood at the top of the stairs, the Dalish glass windows streaking the pale carpet with green and gold, the doors wide open to the Frostback wind. Josie had strewn the bed with daisies and rose petals, and drawn a bath, steaming by the fire that cut the chill. The bed was massive - huge red curtains fencing in the ivory covers from Val Royeaux.

“Sacre Coeur de l’Andraste,” muttered Mireille. “I have never seen such a monstrosity. We’re supposed to sleep in that?”

“Or not sleep,” Loranil replied, kissing her neck, sweeping her hair, ever more rumpled, to one side. “I hardly expect to sleep much at all. Do you?” He pulled her back against him,

“Ivory silk bed linens,” Mireille grumbled, “I guess it’s a good thing that I’m not a virgin. They’d be ruined.”

“Mireille,” Loranil murmured, “please stop criticizing the apartments and pay attention to me?” He laughed, kissing her neck hard enough to leave the mark he had wanted to leave all those months ago, “Didn’t you miss me at all?” He reached around her waist to cup a breast in his hand through her elaborate gown, “I could hardly sleep last night thinking of you, here, so close and so far away.”

“You didn’t end up in the tavern with your friends? Drinking away your last night of bachelorhood?” Mireille blinked, surprised.

“Why would I have been in the tavern? It was a night for contemplation and prayer…” Loranil started, and laughed. “Okay, so maybe our cultures are a little different.”

Mireille laughed, and spun in his arms. “A little.” She started to unbutton his dress uniform, moving impatiently. Loranil looked at her narrowly.

“Were you in the tavern?”

“Absolutely. Leliana reserved a floor for us. There was this elven dancer… he was very flexible and athletic…” Mireille teased. “Of course, with your witness being the Commander, a former Templar - he wouldn’t have thought of throwing such a party, no doubt.”

“Leliana is a Chantry sister!” Loranil was scandalized.

“Oh, it was all in good fun,” Mireille shrugged. “I may have ordered my meal, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t look at the menu. That dancer was nothing to you, ma vhenan.” She finished unbuttoning his jacket. “Shall I prove it to you?”

Loranil sighed, and let it go. “You have nothing to prove, ma cherie.”

“Oh, your accent is improving!” She spun around, “unbutton me.” He did so, watching as inch after inch of her skin was revealed, her dress dipping down towards her round bottom. He trailed his fingers along the gap briefly, distracted.

“I’ve been studying. Some of my future missions may require me to go undercover as an elven servant,” and he added shyly, “and I wanted to impress you.” He finished, and she slid the dress off her shoulders and stepped out of it towards him. “What… are you wearing?”

“Do you like it?” She stepped towards him boldly, and he backed up slightly. “My aunt insisted. She said I couldn’t marry without having an appropriate… wardrobe.” Her small clothes were completely impractical and covered nothing. “She let me pick out…everything.” Her breasts were covered, just, with scraps of lace, held together with strings and bows. A cincher, scooped to accommodate her breasts and narrow her waist. A triangle of matching lace rested between her legs, the area hairless. Loranil looked at her, eyebrows raised.

“You had hair, here,” he touched her, cupping her gently, and she caught her breath, “before. I remember. I remember everything about that night. I have relived it a million times in my daydreams.”

“My aunt has a elven lover,” Mireille arched into him, “and informed me that elven women… do not.”

“Ma petite chou, you don’t have to change yourself,” Loranil tried to explain.

“It’s hair, Loranil,” Mireille glared. “And I like it. Leliana says that she has hers waxed regularly, even here. I will do as I please!” He laughed.

“As you please, my love.” He set his hands upon her waist, over the corset. “I would not want you to change for me. Je t‘aime.”

“Good, because I talked to the Commander yesterday about joining one of his teams. I’m going to the Arbor Wilds when they leave in a few weeks, if he is satisfied with my skills.” He fiddled with the hooks, trying to figure them out. “Unfasten the laces in the back, Loranil, then pull them loose, and it will come undone,” she explained. “Elven women don’t wear corsets?”

“How could he not be?” Loranil knew better than to try to keep her safe. Her father hadn’t succeeded, so why should he try? “No, they don’t. But I like this, despite it’s… impracticality. Your breasts, ma vhenan,” his elven accent thickened. “I want to taste them.” He lunged for her, and she spun away, squealing.

“I’m not undressed, yet!” She wore stockings held up by clips, he saw now that she was a few steps away, making her well-formed legs look impossibly long with the heeled shoes she still wore. “You have to wait!”

“Make me,” Loranil stalked her as he had the first day in the forest, a predatory gleam in his eye. “I have waited long enough to hold you again, to touch you again, to feel you moan my name against my skin. These clothes, they are not enough to stop me.” His chest, even more slimly muscled than when he had left the Dales, heaved appealingly, she noticed, biting her lips. “I have a dagger in my boot. One slice, and they are gone,” he threatened.

Mireille watched him approach, wanting to be caught. “You know, the ties will come apart with just a single pull,” she said, letting him get closer, and then backing herself up. “At least take your clothes off first. I will manage the corset, if you do me that favor,” she looked up at him coquettishly.

Loranil stopped, sighing. “Fine,” and bent over to remove his boots, “Are you sure I can’t just use my dagger on that?”

“Only if you never want me to wear it again!” Mireille trilled. “I thought you liked it?” She laughed at him, and spun around to smack his ass as he worked on the stupid human boots he had been forced to wear with the uniform. “Mmm, you do have a beautiful derriere, ma vhenan. I have to say, I like seeing you like this. These pants, they are so tight. Your Dalish clothes, they always covered your ass.” She goosed him, and he cursed.

“Fenhedis, Mireille! Stop that, or I’ll never get these boots off!” He couldn’t help but laugh at her impudent actions, all the same. “What did your aunt teach you in Val Royeaux?”

“Make me,” she stuck out her tongue at him, “And she taught me this and that…“ but she started working on the satin ribbons on the back of the corset instead of finishing her sentence, pulling them loose with ease. He finished his boots with difficulty, just in time for her to lean over and start on the clips holding the silk stockings, corset now gapping in the front as she bent, her cleavage all too visible and tempting him further.

“Let me,” he breathed, and knelt down, running his hand up her leg to the clip, watching her eyes fall close at the touch. “You have missed my hands, have you not, cherie?”

“Yes,” she breathed, not daring to move, “Touch me again, ma vhenan.” He finished the clip, and slid his fingers down under the stocking, unrolling the entire way to her toes. On an impulse, he kissed and nipped her calf as he pulled the stocking free, and she gasped. He ran his fingers up, brushing them across the impossibly small string between her legs, and making her breathe heavier in anticipation. He managed the second clip, and repeated the process.

He stayed on his knees, and ran his hand back up to the fasteners on the corset, up to the very top where it rested under her breasts, and ran his hand across one, over the lace confining it, the briefest touch. She tried to arch into his hand, to increase the pressure, but he dropped it away. “No, ma vhenan, if you are going to tease me, I will return the favor. It is only fair.” He pulled the first fastener apart, and then the second, her stomach slowly appearing underneath the stays as he undid the mechanisms. The last fell away and he lunged in to kiss her stomach, hands at her waist, and then lower, to cup her ass. He stopped. “Madame, your smallclothes - they are lacking a back. What are these things your aunt bought you?!”

“Oh, please, Loranil, don’t be a prude. Regular smallclothes would have left a visible line under the dress!” Mireille stamped her foot. “Get on with it.”

“It was an observation, not a complaint, cherie,” Loranil smiled against her. “Now, I want to taste you.” He pulled the string on one side of the underclothes, and they fell away. “Lean against the wall, Mireille,” he breathed against her.

“Loranil, you don’t have to…”

“I want to. Do you want me to stop?” He looked up at her, one hand on her thigh, ready to stand at her request.

“No,” she breathed, intrigued. “Please. I didn’t believe my aunt when she told me about this, though.”

“Then lean back, and hold on,” he said, and tasted, tongue tentative and then he moaned. “So good, my love, I will have more.” He lifted her leg and put it over his shoulder. “Let me taste all of you.”

“Always,” she breathed, laying back to allow him to take what he would.

He kept his tongue firm and pointed, rubbing gently against the nub, back and forth, suckling only lightly and trailed the hand down and up her thigh to where it met her body, tracing it forward against her wet core. He groaned into her. “So wet, Mireille. I just want to bury myself into you. Do you know how many nights I longed for you, touching myself to your memory? You cannot know. Years, my love, years.” His voice dripped with remembered pain and desire.

“It was no different for me, ma vhenan.” Her heart broke. “We will never be parted for so long again. I promise you.” He flattened his tongue and pulled it over her, and then kissed her there, working his lips against hers and his tongue into her until she shook. He slipped a finger into her and she moaned.

“Loranil, please, I want all of you again.” She shook against him harder as he added a second finger and beckoned. “It’s been so long, so long,” she babbled, hands buried in his hair.

“I can deny you nothing,” he breathed, and pulled back, standing. She opened her eyes slowly, and though a little shaky, pulled the ties that held her breastband, such as it was, closed. It fell open, and her breasts came loose. She stalked him now, in turn, pushing him backward towards the ridiculous bed as she tossed it to one side, completely bare and absolutely breathtaking.

“Your pants are in the way,” she ordered. “Remove them.” He fell to, at her order, all too willing to free himself from their confines. He dropped them, and she fell before him, removing him from the smallclothes and shoving them down his hips. He awkwardly removed them from his ankles, just in time for her to lick the length of him, bottom to top, and kiss the tip. She looked up at him, suddenly shy. “I want to do this,” she explained, “but I still want to have you later. So stop me if it’s too much.” And then she slid onto him, not able to take all of him, but it didn‘t matter.

“Mireille, it is already almost too much.” She started to move, her tongue rubbing against him, very timid, but innocently eager. He buried his hands in her hair, and tried hard not to thrust against her. “I cry you mercy, Mireille! Please,” he begged. “Another time? Fenhedis!” He gasped out.

“You still haven’t told me what that means,” she came off him, irritated. “And why can’t I make you feel good, hmmm?”

“You already do,” he tried to explain, “And now is not the time to explain what ‘Fenhedis’ means.”

“You only seem to shout it when we are making love,” she grew suspicious. “It’s not that other girl’s name, is it?”

Loranil burst out laughing, and she shoved him onto the bed and climbed on top to straddle him, scowling. “Absolutely not. It means,” and he laughed harder, so that he couldn’t get it out, “’wolf dick’”. He choked himself with laughter, and coughed.

Mireille looked confused. “Why are you yelling that?”

“It’s a curse word, Mireille. It refers to our trickster god, the Dread Wolf. I’m cursing.” He buried his face in her breasts, finally tasting them, but still shaking in laughter.

“Oh!” She looked absurdly pleased, “Well, that’s okay then. Carry on.” He laughed harder, unable to stop. “Still, I’m hardly likely to yell out ‘cul du chien’ when I come.” She bent down to his ear, “Though my aunt did teach me some elven words to use in reference to your body.” He stopped laughing. “Some other time, perhaps.” She raised a dainty eyebrow at his expression.

“Mireille, I wonder about this aunt of yours.”

“I would say I am very lucky to have her.” Mireille raised up and adjusted him so that he lay against her entrance. “It was a very educational visit, all things considered. Sometime, we will visit her together, and you will adore her.” She drove down onto him and froze. “Sweet Andraste at the Maker’s side,” she breathed. “You will have to move. I cannot.”

“You are on top,” Loranil pointed out, and leaned up to nurse at her breasts, sucking gently. She thrust herself forward into his mouth, and started to rock. She hummed at the sensation and rocked harder. He lifted her, with his hands at her hips, and slid her back down, thrusting up as he could.

“Oh,” She arched against him. He repeated, and laid himself back down to watch her, breasts bouncing, as she rode him. “Oh, Loranil. I cannot last this way. I think I understand now, you feel so…”

“Do you want to move?” He was transfixed, watching her, cursing the darkness from their first night that had kept him from seeing her face, but continuing to lift her. She was as lovely as a shaft of sunlight through the trees.

“No,” she gasped, and slanted forward, hand by his head. “I do not.” She slammed against him, passion overtaking her, rocking when he was in her fully, faster and harder than he would have dared. She dropped her other hand between them, and touched herself. “No, I want you to do it,” she pulled her fingers away and he promptly moved his fingers between them. “I don’t want to make myself come again for a _very_ long time,” she gritted out. “You, only you!”

“Only me,” he breathed, pushing up into her driving down. “Mireille, I am…”

“Loranil!” She cried out, back arching like a bow, and he felt her ripple around him, waves against him carrying him along on their current.

“Mireille!” He flipped her over and pushed into her yet harder, her legs driving him deeper yet. “Mireille!” He came at last, shooting into her with the power of a thousand arrows and riding it out as she arched against him, shouting out one more time. He fell to one side, rocking her against him, so that they could stay joined, holding her as they both shuddered.

She started to laugh, the laugh like a babbling brook that he had missed so much, kissing everywhere she could reach, uncontrollably until he asked what was so funny. “My aunt - she was right about everything,” she laughed, and then froze. “Oh no.”

“What? What’s happened?” He looked at her alarmed.

“I forgot to touch your ears. She told me, most expressly, not to forget, and I still forgot!” Mireille was furious. “What is that word, the wolf dick word? I need to say something, and it needs to be worse than anything I can think of.”

Loranil just held her tighter. “Next time, vhenan,” though he was breathless just thinking about it. “Next time.”

She smiled. There would be many next times.  Hopefully beginning tonight.

After all, they had an ostentatious bed to ruin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! It was both shorter and longer than I hoped. If you haven't read the Emerald Knight's Inscription you should - I didn't want to drag out the marriage ceremony. Asta insisted on preaching enough about why this was going to happen this way. I do apologize. This was supposed to be mostly about the smut, but she does love her soapbox.
> 
> And if the new DLC is going in the direction I think it will, you will probably see this couple again in my main story, Andraste's Asta. Because Asta has plans, and Thedas is mostly going to hate them.


End file.
